Page 24 of Forbidden Rancher's Return
We load the cart without speaking. Feed, salt blocks, fence staples, a new coil of wire. Calla pays without looking at anyone. Signs her name like a statement.
Outside, the sky darkens another shade. The wind picks up.
Calla climbs into the driver's seat. I close the door. The cab seals around us.
"You handled that," I say.
She keeps her eyes on the road. "I don't have time not to."
A beat passes.
"You don't care what they say."
"I care." A pause. "I just don't obey."
The line lands deep. Like a promise she made to herself a long time ago and has been keeping it ever since.
My jaw aches when I almost smile.
Calla notices. Her gaze flicks over me.
"You're bleeding again."
"It's fine."
The truck hits a rut. Calla's hand steadies the wheel. Then she exhales like she's coming to a decision.
"Beck will hear about the store."
"He already knows."
"How."
"I saw him at the junction."
Her grip tightens. "Did he follow."
"No." A pause. "He watched."
Calla's jaw sets. The ridge road curves back toward the farm. Ironwood Ridge comes into view through the trees. The house sitting stubborn on its slope like it dares the mountain to try harder.
We unload feed in the barn. Work is grounding. A rhythm that doesn't care about history or gossip.
Calla hauls a sack onto her shoulder like it weighs nothing. I take the next one before she can reach it. Her eyes flash.
"I can carry it."
"I know."
That's all. No argument. Just the truth that I'm not letting her do everything alone while I'm standing right here.
The afternoon moves fast. Horses fed. Water lines checked. Fence tightened on the north run.
By dusk, the wind turns cold. The rain returns. Not hard, but steady, the kind that settles in for the night.
Calla stands on the porch watching it. Arms folded tight. Not cold.
Braced.
